LEO SZN
by in perpetuum
Summary: "What the fuck is Hermia's Horoscopes, and why did I just get four notifications from them?" / DerrickCam.


_I'm attempting to learn how to write oneshots since I am physically incapable and also on a mission to make this fandom gayer, so here's this, which is based on the CO-STAR app. AKA I used my own horoscopes so Cam is me. I am Cam. Thanks to whoever is in charge of that app. Happy August._

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**_LEO SZN_**

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**_(10:14) Welcome to Hermia's Horoscopes!  
_****_(10:14) _**🌞**_: Leo  
_****_(10:14) _**⬆️**_: Sagittarius  
_****_(10:14) _**🌕**_: Capricorn_**

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"What," Cam bleats, squinting at his phone. The brightness is too much for him right now, the screen a little bit, too. Words crash into each other, they're too _small_, and he needs to blink one too many times to make any sense of them. "What the _fuck_ is _Hermia's Horoscopes_, and _why_ did I just get _four _notifications from them?"

Alicia laughs, throwing her legs over his lap as she leans against his shoulder. She smells like a mixture of chocolaty perfume, Josh's cologne, and tequila. The usual, he guesses, but it's really fucking with his head tonight. "What's it say?" she asks, which is not an answer.

"Today it will be hard to break from your daily routine," he reads. He definitely should've worn his glasses; everything is so _miniscule_ – or maybe that's just the alcohol clouding his vision. "Other people's opinions of you don't determine your value." He pauses, blinks again, tosses his arm around Alicia's shoulder to grab the lukewarm beer on the table on her left. "Cool. Great insight. What the fuck is this?"

"You know Hermia? The psychic?"

"Unfortunately," says Cam, finishing off what's left in the bottle.

"I signed everyone up for her – it's kind of like a newsletter, maybe?" Alicia shrugs. "I don't know what to call it, but she essentially sends you horoscopes, or, like, advice, based on your zodiac sign every day."

Cam presses two fingers to his eyelid. "I don't even – I think she's full of shit, you know that. Why would you even – _all _of us?"

"Well, I saw her last week, and she gave me pretty good advice, so I thought we could all benefit from a little bit of…" Alicia peers up at him, contemplating. "Guidance from the stars."

"_Guidance_," Cam repeats. "You were so – what'd she even tell you that had you jumping at this?"

He looks at the message, searches it for anything that tells him how to _stop_ this. There's nothing. Just _other people's opinions of you don't determine your value_, which is true, but not something he needed a psychic telling him. He knew that. He learned that from his _mom_.

"She told me I'd have to make a very big, very life-changing decision and that even if I really wanted to do it, I should take a moment to look inside myself to make sure I was doing what was right for _me_, not anyone else." Alicia looks pleased with herself, like that's a big accomplishment. Cam has known her long enough to know that it's _not_, that Alicia never does anything that's not _right to her_. She's never succumbed to the kind of peer pressure they've all fallen victim to. She's the _reason_ for peer pressure, actually. "So," she continues, "I did just that and I realized _yes_: I did want to sleep with Josh because I _wanted_ to, not because he's been asking and we've been dating for years, so I did, and it was a good decision."

Cam gapes, not sure if the words she said are real. "You… wait. You're telling me that you… you had _sex_ with Josh because – because a _psychic_ told you to?" He thinks his ears are ringing.

"She did not _tell_ me to," Alicia argues. "She said I had to be sure about making this very big, very life-changing decision, and she was right, and I _was_!"

He swallows a snort, which hurts. "You took that to mean sex? Like, you listened to this shit and thought, _She's talking to me about my decision to sleep with my boyfriend_, not, like, any other decision in your life? You have no other life-changing decisions to make? Just this one? About Josh? Who you've been dating since grade eight?"

Spelling it out like that – and combining it with the ferocious look she's giving him, all pouty bottom lip and narrowed eyes – has Cam fighting to keep his laughter down. It doesn't help that she purposely digs her elbow into the fleshy part of his chest by his armpit, snapping, "This is _serious_! She's _right_. She predicted the Pretty Committee, don't you remember?"

"Okay, _wait_." Cam wipes his hand over his mouth. "I'm currently receiving daily horoscope texts because a psychic correctly predicted the creation of a _middle school clique_ and convinced you to _sleep with Josh_?"

"When you put it like that, it sounds dumb!" Alicia retorts. "And it's not! I will not have you demeaning – will you _stop_ – "

But he can't, even if he wanted to. His laughter bubbles around them, hard and loud, physically hurting him as it leaves his chest. Like, it's _painful_ how hard he's laughing, and he can't form any words, can't even lift his arms to defend himself against Alicia's attacks, palms slapping against his chest.

He tries to ward her off, but she's persistent. "It's not funny, Cam!" she yells. "Stop laughing! This is serious! You're the _worst_."

He coughs out, "Does Josh know? Did you tell him the only reason he's gotten laid is because you went to a _psychic _named _Hermia_ and she told you to really consider your _life-changing _decision? How life-changing was it, actually? I hope he lived up to Hermia's hype – "

"Shut up!" Alicia shrieks, pressing her palm over his mouth. This only makes him laugh harder. "You're not my friend anymore, you are _not_, I'm revoking your friendship. I never want to see you again – _ew_, did you _lick –_ "

"Why are you trying to kill Cam?" Derrick asks innocently, voice somewhere above them.

It's like that simple question changed everything – or it feels that way to Cam. He calms down quickly, his amusement replaced with nervousness, something that he's annoyed to note happens more often than not these days. His face remains hot, which he can blame on the laughing (and the alcohol) if asked, but he knows the truth.

Worse, he accidentally bites down on Alicia's hand like he has no control over his body, and she squeaks out, "_Ow_!"

He looks up, head leaning against the back of the couch, and is met with the underside of Derrick's chin. His eyes roam, like they always do, and he follows the line of freckles on his neck like a map – they trail down, cluster at his collarbone, and dip beneath the collar of his shirt. Cam has always wondered if he's got freckles everywhere on his body.

"He was making fun of me because Hermia, the _very esteemed_ psychic, gave me an excellent reading the other day and so I signed us all up for her horoscope text thing," Alicia answers.

"Oh." Derrick brightens. "I got mine today. Good stuff."

Alicia smiles and takes the cup from his hand, gives it to Cam. "What'd yours say?"

Derrick grins and shakes his head. "Nothing important." His gaze slides over to Cam, burning with curiosity. Burning with something else. "You don't like Hermia?"

It takes Cam a second to register the fact he's been asked a question. He tears himself from the slope of his neck, the sharpness of his jawline, and asks, "You _do_?" once his brain starts functioning again.

"Well, yeah," Derrick answers. "Hey, budge up." He hops over, settling on Cam's other side, but too fast for Cam to actually move, so now he's got a lapful of Alicia and Derrick pressed tightly against him. "I went to her with Ali in, what was it, like, ninth grade, when Plov broke his leg _again_ and I was nervous about the soccer season? She's the GOAT. I get a reading every year."

Cam feels like he's in the Twilight Zone, or like he's having a fever dream. Derrick would never like something like this, not when he is so staunchly against all the things Massie liked, even now, so many years later. It is hard to put the two together: Derrick, all-around jock, captain of the soccer team, and _psychic readings_. It makes his head hurt, so he stops trying to make sense of it.

He says instead, "Did you know Alicia fucked Josh because Hermia told her to?"

"I did_ not_," Alicia retorts.

Derrick looks from Cam to Alicia and back again, clearly amused. "Well, we always did know Josh would need a little help," he says. "I just never thought it would be some kind of divine intervention."

"What," Cam blurts.

"When the stars speak, they speak," Derrick tells him.

Alicia frowns at him, probably unable to determine if he's making fun of her or not (which is what Cam is also trying to figure out). "Hermia told Cam it will be hard to break his daily routine today."

"And to not let other people's opinions of me determine my value." Cam adds, "That's probably the most relevant part, since it's approximately eleven thirty and there is no determining if my daily routine is over."

"Do you often let people's opinions of you determine your value?" Derrick asks.

"No, not often," says Cam_, unless that opinion is yours. _He feels that thought creep up his spine, fill his brain like goo. It is unwanted, uncalled for; most importantly, it is not a lie, and even sober Cam hates being so self-aware.

Alicia kicks her foot out at Derrick, who catches it easily, squeezing lightly. She laughs; she's always been ticklish there. "Come on," she tries to persuade. "Tell me yours! It can't have been _nothing important_." She mocks him with air-quotes. "Mine told me to take a risk in my relationship today."

"Probably anal," Cam replies seriously, then flushes when Derrick turns his gaze on him. "Another life-changing decision for you to make."

She slaps him again, right there on his shoulder. He laughs around the heat crawling up his neck.

"No, really," Derrick tells them. "It wasn't anything, like…" He shrugs. "Nothing profound, like opinions, or risky, like anal. Just – not important."

"It is _not _about – " Alicia cuts herself off, cheeks turning red, and stands. "I will not force myself to be made fun of by the likes of you two," she decides haughtily, flipping her hair – a mess from trying to beat up Cam – over her shoulder. "And I will be taking _this_ because I deserve it more than you." She snatches away Cam's drink, makes a scene of sipping at it, and then disappears to, probably, take that risk in her relationship.

Cam really hopes she does something stupid just so he can make fun of her and Hermia again.

With Alicia gone, he can easily scoot over to make more room for him and Derrick, but he just turns to him instead. "Must be a juicy horoscope if you didn't want to tell her."

"For someone who is vehemently against Hermia, you seem very interested in her line of work," Derrick teases.

"I told you mine," Cam says.

"Alicia told me yours."

"I told you the _good_ part of mine."

"Fine." Derrick rolls his eyes. "You really wanna know?" Cam shrugs, but the answer is yes, he wants to know. Of course he does. He always wants to know everything about Derrick. "It said, _I'm really glad you didn't go on that trip to Germany with your dad. Summer would suck without you_."

Something flutters in Cam's stomach, makes him nauseous. He ignores it and demands, "Have you been implying that I am _nothing important_ this whole time?"

Derrick gasps at the suggestion, nose wrinkling. "Baby, _no_," he says, because he does that sometimes; he calls them all pet names. He surges forward, throws his arms around Cam, and pulls him into an embrace that has Cam's nose smushed against the very collarbone he'd been staring at earlier.

He smells kind of spicy, kind of sweaty – probably from that impromptu soccer game he'd had them all play earlier. Cam takes this all in and hopes the music is loud enough to mask the pathetic sort of whine that escapes him, his mouth pressed firmly to his skin, able to feel the calm beating of his heart.

"You are _most important_," Derrick says, carding his fingers through Cam's hair. They're long and soft, applying just the right amount of pressure. Cam lets go of whatever's holding him back – worry, probably, and a lot of uncalled for anxiety – and wraps his arms around Derrick, who is his best friend at the core of it all. "I just didn't want Alicia to get jealous. You know how it is."

"Right, of course," Cam whispers, elongating the words, drawing them out real slow, and if his lips brush against Derrick's freckles as it happens, well, it's not really his fault, is it?

* * *

**_(11:17) What you know and what you want are at odds. You may be more sensitive and irritable right now._**

* * *

"You and Derrick sure looked cozy last night," Claire sing-songs.

Cam glares at her from behind his sunglasses, head fucking pounding. His hangover is something else today, but it's to be expected. He overcompensates with alcohol when he's nervous. "You're too loud," he says. "Take it from a ten to a two. Maybe a one. Zero-point-five, actually." He considers her, biting down on his straw. "No, don't speak at all."

"What? You're just gonna stare at me?"

"Yes."

Cam drinks his latte: large, iced, vanilla-caramel swirl.

Claire keeps quiet, looks at him: eyes big, mouth pink, coffee untouched.

"Fuck," he complains after a while, "you're judgy even when you're not talking. Shit."

"You've known this for years," she replies. "Just like I know you're hiding something."

"I can't hide something you already know," he mumbles, "and you know. It's the reason we broke up."

Claire leans on her elbows. "That was a year ago."

"Yeah," Cam says. It's been a very long, drawn-out torture.

"Cam," she replies. He can't determine if it is pity in her tone or something else. Regardless, combined with his hangover, it makes him want to die. "_Cam_." Her hand reaches out, covers his. Squeezes. Her fingers are so much smaller than his, paler than his, not right. He remembers the feel of Derrick's, scratching at his scalp, cupping the back of his neck. Long, tan, _warm_. Claire's are cold.

"Stop," he croaks, because he doesn't want this. Doesn't want her to feel bad for him, or to take him to brunch because he's – he's fucking _sad_ – or to remind him that he's Cam, and Derrick's Derrick, and the only thing they'll ever be is best friends who get touchy when they drink. Derrick likes to cuddle; he'll cuddle anyone, anywhere, as long as they're willing. It was nothing. It was – it was _cozy_, like she said.

"It's – it's fine," Claire tells him, but he doesn't like that she is. Doesn't like that she knows, that she dated him while he was falling over his ass for his best friend. Doesn't like that she is still here even after he royally fucked her over. She's a goddamn angel and he's a whole mess and he doesn't deserve to have someone so nice to him when he's been so shitty to her. "You know you're allowed to like him, right? You don't have to beat yourself up about it or, like, monitor your behaviors."

Sweat drips down the back of his neck, the sun beating down on them, and he wonders, not for the first time, why Claire is torturing him with outdoor seating in the middle of the summer. She looks unfazed as always, practically glowing, and he frowns, heart beating in his _ears_ \- from the exposure to the sun and the heat and every other awful thing about July, not from the sudden and overbearing _panic_ that overwhelms him at her words.

He's allowed to like Derrick, allowed to _like_-like Derrick. He knows this somewhere inside of him, knows that he's got a good support system and friends who won't judge him for who he likes – and if they do, well, fuck them, right? – but it's himself he has to fight with. It's himself he needs to convince he's allowed to want to kiss his best friend. It creeps up sometimes, that thought, that _want_, and he finds himself staring, committing every part of Derrick to memory so he has something to think about later, when that wall has crumbled down and he's accepted that this is who he is, this is who he wants. This is who he's wanted his whole life, it feels, because he's always circled around Derrick. They've never _not_ been tied together, even in grade three, when Derrick made a beeline towards him and only him, even when there were so many other boys to be friends with, so many other people vying for his attention because he was loud and he was funny and he was always up for a good dare on the playground. He said to the girl occupying the desk across from him, "Hi, this is my seat," moved her nameplate to a different desk, split his vanilla donut down the middle, and handed it over. "I'm Derrick," he told Cam. "We're friends now."

And they were. They were friends. Just like that.

Every year after, Cam and Derrick were as close as anything. They joined sports together, they attempted band together, they had their mothers pull strings when they weren't put in the same fifth grade class. He still has the walkie talkie they used to use to talk when they were supposed to be asleep, ten years old and not allowed to have phones yet. It's always been Derrick and Cam, Cam and Derrick, with spaces, without spaces. Where one was, the other wasn't far behind.

They went from friends to best friends, inseparable and connected. It only makes sense that it escalated, that their tight knit friendship started to blur all the lines and edges, that one day Cam woke up in a cold sweat, _aching_.

It wasn't like it was a sudden revelation, though at the time he thought it was. Claire knew, because Claire always knows, and she'd been the one to calmly walk him through it when he showed up, hands shaking, throat dry, burning with the desire to kiss Derrick. He'd wanted to know what his mouth tasted like, what his hands against his bare skin would feel like. What kind of _sounds_ he'd make.

He started noticing things around then, too, the little things he used to notice about Claire. How his nose would wrinkle when he laughed. How he sucked on the collar of his shirt when he worked out in soccer. How he loved Thursdays because the cafeteria sold those half-cooked cookies, doughy in the middle and full of melted chocolate. How he bought four at a time, picked at them all day. How he smiled differently for everyone, but always, _always_ looked happy to see Cam. How his mouth was pink, bottom lip plush and ready to bite.

Cam swallows and pushes his sunglasses into his hair. He's allowed to like Derrick, but he won't allow himself to do it – to say it out loud, rather, because he's scared, and he's not sure he wants to break his own heart.

"Cam?" Claire prompts. From the looks of it, this is not the first time she's called his name. Her brow furrows.

He wants to look away from her, to cover his eyes with his glasses again, but he falls victim to her gaze, blue and deep like the ocean. She's always been so pretty, always been so kind, so different from the other Westchester girls. He's always liked her more than he ought to.

He thinks maybe that's why he says, "What if he doesn't like me back?" His voice is small and weak. He fists his hand in the material of his shorts. "What if," he continues, "it ruins everything and he doesn't want to be friends anymore?"

Claire blinks, but her facial expression doesn't change. Cam lets that thought stew, feels it in his heart, in his bones, heavy and painful. He doesn't think he can handle it if that happens. He'd rather have Derrick as his friend than not at all, even if every cell in his body cries out for something else, something _more_. Even if his mind can trick him into thinking Derrick may want the same.

"That's the thing, isn't it," says Claire. "I don't have an answer for that. No one ever does. It's… it's not any different than any other potential relationship. There was a chance you'd want nothing to do with me after I told you I liked you."

"No," he says immediately. "I wouldn't have done that."

She smiles. "What makes you think Derrick won't do the same?"

Cam's lips part, like he's going to respond to this, but his brain won't wrap itself around the thought. Won't consider the possibilities: it working out, it not working out but Derrick not caring, Derrick still there, Derrick not leaving. He's only ever focused on the _bad_, on the losing part. Never lets himself have the good.

Derrick's not like that. He's never left, not even when Cam's been at his worst, when Cam's been begging for him to just leave him alone. He's always there to remind Cam he's not his brother and that's okay, always there to pull him back from the edge. Always there, always there, _always there_.

The truth is staring him right in the face, but his mind whispers traitorously, _There may be a time he isn't._

A fist closes around his heart, squeezing at the picture that paints, so he flags down a waiter and asks for a round of mimosas, hangover be damned.

* * *

**_(2:47) Beware of emotional intensity._**

* * *

"Oh, fuck _off_."

"What'd I ever do to you?" Dylan asks. She twists her hair, drenched and curlier than ever, into a bun on the top of her head. Several pieces fall out of her scrunchie immediately, framing her face and sticking to her skin, sticky and wet from the pool.

Cam drops his phone, the thing he was really snapping at, and grins. "Existed," he covers easily, stretching a leg to poke at her shoulder with his toe. She hates that.

"You know what," she begins, "for that, you're not getting any of my mudslide."

"Nothing new there. You never share."

"I was going to today," she replies flippantly. "But now I'm not. Sad for you." She slurps on her straw, making aggressive eye contact, and Cam frowns because she's so rude, and now he needs to get up and walk all the way across the backyard to get his own.

And if he does that, she'll take his towel and lay on it herself and he loses his prime napping spot.

"You fucking suck," he tells her, pushing himself up.

Dylan waits until he's standing and presses a loud kiss to his cheek… then she steals his towel.

Cam stares at her as she smiles up at him. She's got chocolate all around her mouth – probably from the drink – and he decides not to tell her because she's _mean_. It's a good idea, too, because she purrs, "_Enjoy_," like he's about to, he doesn't know, do something much more fun than get a frozen cocktail from the blender.

"Right," he says.

He turns.

He turns and his stomach drops to his feet, which he trips over like an _idiot_, and he hears Dylan's giggles behind him. He says her name in a rasp – because what? He hasn't told anyone, hasn't said it out loud, the words, at least, he knows that – to which she responds, "Soccer training did him good this year, didn't it?"

Yes, but like.

What the fuck.

"Looks fine," he croaks. He sounds like a frog, probably. Kermit the Frog. An icon. The most famous frog of all. Why is he thinking about frogs? "Could use some more definition in the ab area, but, like, it will do."

"Mm," Dylan chirps back. "I think he's much more than fine. Don't you agree?"

He's so hot.

Cam, that is. Like, really hot. Stranded in a desert without any water hot. His skin may be peeling off, that's how warm he is. He's certain he's about to die.

Derrick's hot, too, no doubt about that, and Cam feels like a whole ass predator with the way his gaze travels down his body. He's not too far away that he can't see every muscle Derrick has painstakingly honed since they were twelve. He stares and he stares and he keeps on staring and he can't stop. No, he cannot, but literally no one can blame him, not when Derrick has an ass like that.

_You're allowed_, he reminds himself, and then, to answer Dylan's question what feels like hours later, he says, "Yeah, I agree."

There is a slight pause, like Dylan wasn't expecting a response or even an agreeable one. "Cool," she replies. "Want my mudslide?"

"I thought you weren't sharing."

"I wasn't, but then you shared something with me, so I thought I'd return the favor."

"I…" he starts, because it's safer for him and his dry mouth and his fingers, which he's laced into each other, to stay here. But Derrick is over there, and while Cam wants to flee in the other direction, he also wants to be as close to him as possible. "No, thanks," he tells her. "I think I'll get my own."

"Okay," says Dylan. "I'll be here. You know, if you need me."

Cam is absolutely astounded when his feet move, one in front of the other. He wasn't sure they'd do that. It takes longer than it ought to. It takes shorter than it ought to. Next thing he knows, he's standing right next to him, going through the motions, grabbing a cup, pouring the slush into it.

He goes to drink it, and he's not sure he even wants this anymore, not when he sees the piña colada he could have instead, when Derrick's hand is in his hair, fingers brushing through the messy clump at his ear. Cam feels his spine snap straight. It hurts how tense he gets.

"You forgot this," Derrick says, not noticing that. He tucks one of those bendable flower straws behind his ear. It's pink; Cam can see it in Derrick's glasses.

Cam squints. "I don't think that's where it goes. I think I'm supposed to drink out of it."

"Looks better there," says Derrick. "Brings out the blue eye."

His palm remains, fingers curling around his cheek. Cam's heart skips a beat, hard and sudden. He bites down his lip, hoping his heartbeat isn't so strong that Derrick can feel it in his face.

Derrick's gaze flits from the flower to his eyes to his mouth and back. Cam's body makes the decision to step further into Derrick, where he can count all the freckles on Derrick's skin. There's gotta be at least fifty spanning his cheeks and his nose. Some are dark and obvious, others are small and light, only able to be seen from this distance.

There's a thumb on his bottom lip now, prodding, brushing, and Derrick says, "Your nose is sunburnt."

"It always is," Cam replies. His tongue presses against Derrick's finger as he talks, his bottom teeth catching it, and Derrick jerks Cam's chin up so suddenly Cam's breath escapes him in a tiny gasp.

He shouldn't have done that, but he had no control over his body and this is what he's been afraid of – of doing things he can't help and Derrick not liking it because Derrick doesn't like Cam, not like that. And he's done that, he's fucked the whole thing up – and their faces are so close that their noses are touching and it's kind of hard for him to breathe because this is one of those things Derrick does sometimes. He always gets too close and takes up too much space and does whatever he can to get a rise out whoever he's with. He loves a laugh and making people uncomfortable is pretty funny to him.

There is a beat of silence – very, very charged silence – where Derrick opens his mouth, presumably to say something. Presumably to tell Cam he knows what's up with him and he's not interested and he doesn't want to be his friend ever again. His hand leaves his face and Cam feels the absence like a wound, stinging and cold, but then Derrick's cupping the back of his neck, his fingers threading into the hair there.

"I," Derrick starts, and Cam notices he must've gotten sunburnt too. The apples of his cheeks are light pink, like he's been in the sun for just a touch too long. Derrick always forgets to put sunscreen on his face.

But he doesn't finish his thought, as incomplete as it seems to be. There's a shout of "_Cannonball!_" and then a loud, large splash.

"What the _hell_, Plovert!" Dylan shrieks, though she is nowhere near the splash zone. That's Derrick and Cam.

Cam jumps away from Derrick, hands fucking shaking like the loser he is, and twists on his heel, walking as casually as he can into the house, where he spends the next twenty minutes having a full-on panic attack in the bathroom. He ignores the way Derrick calls after him, ignores how he threatens Chris within an inch of his life, ignores Dylan when she knocks on the door.

_It's stupid_, he thinks, when he's got a handle on himself. It's stupid for him to have reacted so strongly to whatever the hell just happened, but he really – a part of his traitorous heart really thought, despite everything he knows to be true, that Derrick was going to kiss him then.

Dylan's older sister, Ryan, drives him home, and Dylan comes with even though she doesn't have to. She leaves Plovert in her house, watching _13 Going On 30 _with her other sister, Jamie, and says nothing the entire way there, just holding his hand in the backseat.

* * *

**_(6:17) It's been difficult for you to pay attention to things other than the deepest parts of your psyche._**

* * *

His older brother, Harris, is the biggest asshole he knows, and he's gone to school with the likes of Kemp Hurley, Chris Abeley, and Danny Robbins since he was six. In kindergarten, Kemp shoved a handful of mud down his shirt. In sixth grade, Chris Abeley teased his lisp. In tenth grade, Danny found out his secret and blackmailed him into taking all of his pre-Calc tests. Cam failed the course, but Danny passed.

But Harris is related to him and he is worse than all of those boys – and the mean girls Cam has befriended over the years. So when he barges into Cam's bedroom with his shit-eating grin on his face, Cam's hackles rise. He may be popular but he's faced his fair share of bullying in school; he knows what to look out for, and Harris's smirk is one of them.

"Mom never let _me_ have sleepovers with girls," Harris whines.

Cam's pretty sure his mom has never allowed him that either, but he drawls, "You're wildly untrustworthy."

Harris shrugs the shoulder not leaning up against the doorframe. "Be that as it may," he says (and it may), "I'm proud of you, bro. Look like a rose but be the thorn underneath, or whatever that chick says in _Hamlet_."

"I think that's _Macbeth_," replies Cam.

"Whatever. Toe-may-to, tuh-ma-to. I really thought you weren't going to get laid like _ever_, so I'll let this happen just the once. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Harris winks. "There are condoms in the box of bandaids under the sink in our bathroom."

"I dated Claire for three years," Cam says.

Harris scoffs. "That girl would never give it up, as hot as she is. But this one..." Harris whistles, impressed. "Just don't do anything I wouldn't do, yeah?"

"Which is _what_ exactly?" Kristen demands, appearing at his side. She's frowning, clearly unamused.

"I imagine you'd love to know that." Harris grins.

Kristen guffaws, loud and sarcastic, and makes sure to whack Harris with her duffle as she passes by, entering Cam's room. "Leave," she says. "I don't get off on having an audience."

Harris laughs, holding his hands up, a sign of surrender. "Fiesty," he allows. "She'll be fun."

Kristen slams the door in his face. Cam wishes his finger got caught in it.

He flops down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Says, "How'd you manage to convince my mom you should sleep over?"

"Told her it was an emergency." Kristen settles on the edge of his mattress. "You've been avoiding us, so I thought I'd come to you."

"I haven't been – "

"Cut the crap, Cam." Kristen crawls up to his pillows, settles next to him. He feels her looking at his face, but he keeps his gaze straight ahead. "I know when I'm being ignored."

He stays silent. She's not wrong.

"Want to make some very believable ruckus so Harris thinks you're boning me?"

Cam wrinkles his nose. "No, thank you," he says. "Let Harris think what he wants. I don't care."

"Okay, but the offer stands all night. I'm pretty good at jumping on beds." Kristen sits up, drags her bag towards her. "Wanna do a face mask? My skin is so dry. We just started soccer practice today and I was wholly unprepared."

He presses his mouth into a tight line, stretches his arms over his head. "You got the charcoal one or just the green tea?"

Kristen slaps a mask on his nose. "Didn't realize your pores were so large."

"They're not," he replies, "but there's a reason for that."

She groans, squinting at her reflection in her phone. "Don't remind me. You win _Best Skin _every year."

"Drop half your APs and pick one after school activity," he advises, pushing himself up. "Drink more water and stop skimping out on your vegetables. You'll thank me later."

Kristen prods at a blackhead beneath her lip and sighs. "When I'm accepted to Yale, we can talk. For now, we face mask."

It's starting to get tight and tingly around his nose and the corners of his mouth when Kristin's phone goes off. It's the standard ringtone that comes with the iPhone; when she takes one look at her screen, she groans, heaving a heavy sigh.

"I told him not to bother me today," she says.

She presses decline.

"Right, so, as I was saying, I really think we should take this quiz that will determine which Disney princess we are. I have a feeling I know who – "

Her phone chimes three times. He can see the messages pop up on the side of her Mac, where she's currently scrolling through Buzzfeed. She glances at them. Swipes them away.

"Okay, so – first quest-"

The ringtone goes off again, different from the previous sound. She's getting a FaceTime. He watches it come in, feels his heart skip several beats, drop like a very slow, very steep roller coaster. _Harrington_, her screen reads, right above the video of his ceiling.

Kristen sighs, takes one look at him, embarrassingly focused on his fingers, and says, "Hold on. I will not have him ruin our bonding time."

She answers it. "This better be good. I'm trying to determine what Disney princess Cam is."

"Jasmine," Derrick says immediately.

Kristen frowns. Her mask cracks at her brow. "Explain."

"I dunno. He's, like, very strong-willed and knows what he wants and won't let anyone manipulate him," replies Derrick. "Also _Aladdin _is my favorite Disney movie so I may be biased."

"Huh." Kristen picks at her nose. Flakes from her red mask fall on his comforter. "I thought maybe Ariel because he's got all these plans and dreams, but can become easily distracted when there's something he wants involved." She glances at him and he is glad his cheeks are covered in this gunk or else she'd see how red he's gotten. "Only Buzzfeed knows the real answer. Okay, so question one, Cammie Cam."

Derrick's voice sounds different when he asks, "Cam is right there?"

"Obviously. I just said I was trying to figure out what princess he is. Why would he _not_ be right here?"

"He's – you're hanging out with – can I talk – ?"

Cam blurts, "I need to wash this off. My skin is itchy. I'll be right back."

He doesn't wait for a response, slipping from the room and heading down the hall. He stares at himself, pathetic and sad, and reaches for a washcloth. He takes careful pains to remove the mask from his face, rubbing under his ears and beneath his chin, scrubbing the black from his nose. His skin feels rejuvenated when he's all done, though dark bags live under his eyes despite all that. He can't escape how tired he is, how he bursts from sleep every time Derrick enters his dreams, like his body knows how terrified he is of even remembering his friend exists.

Kristen's not too far off when she says he's ignoring them. But it's not _them_ he's avoiding, it's only Derrick, and Derrick is with them twenty-four-seven so there's never any chance Cam can just pop in. He uses his Snapchat to find out where Derrick is and steers clear of those places because he's a coward. He just doesn't want to see him and be reminded of how his one-track mind led him to believe Derrick thought of him differently than he does.

Because he doesn't. He's come to terms with that. It's just – he hasn't quashed the crush yet and he hasn't been able to since he was fifteen, so maybe it's impossible. Maybe his biggest fear – not being able to be friends with him – is the only solution. Maybe that's the only way to get him to stop thinking about him all the time, even when he doesn't want to.

Cam runs his fingers under the faucet, mind immediately flashing back to that horrid day in Dylan's backyard. The water had dripped down Derrick's body so enticingly, coating his tanned skin, settling into the ridges and grooves of his muscles, making those stand out even more than they already do. His mouth had been as dry then as it was now. He'd wanted to _lick _him. Hadn't been able to think about anything else. _Hasn't _been able to think anything else since.

His feelings are such an overwhelming clusterfuck that he had to mute Derrick on every social media platform so he wouldn't have to fucking see him. He's so tragic.

"Why are you sitting on the bathroom floor?" his mother asks.

Cam isn't so much sitting as he is laying and wallowing. He looks up. "I'm having a crisis. Why are you standing on the bathroom floor?"

"It's where feet go," says Pamela. "Do you want to discuss it or should I pretend this is normal and ask if you and Kristen want Chinese for dinner?"

If he tells her to ignore him, he'll probably have an easier time of it, but then he'd still have everything swirling inside him. And he feels kind of like shit because he knows Derrick was asking if he could talk to him – he's really just not answering all fifty-two of his texts; he hasn't even opened them – and he just... he ran off. And as confusing and upsetting as his emotions are, he doesn't want to continue to run away from his best friend.

Well, he _does_, but only because he's been having a very uncomfortable issue with his dick when he sees him, thanks to a terribly realistic dream he had a few weeks back. Which he is constantly thinking about. Because he's the worst.

When he doesn't say anything, his mom perches atop the closed toilet seat. "Is this about the lack of Derrick in our house lately? I've grown used to him being here, even when you're not. Did you two fight?"

"We don't fight," Cam says automatically.

"I know that much." She's looking at him like she really sees him, like Claire looked at him at twelve, at fifteen, at brunch two weeks ago. It makes him uncomfortable when people do that, when they don't have to ask, don't need answers, to _know_.

And Cam is so tired of people knowing him more than he knows himself. "How," he starts, then stops. His voice shakes and it's so stupid. "How do you know," he begins again, and that's all he can get out for now, the rest of the words caught in the trap that is his throat.

_Get out get out get out_, he orders them. He wants to ask this. He wants to know from his mom, not Claire, not Dylan, not Kristen, who he can hear laughing.

His tongue slurs over the words, tripping over them like untied laces, but he manages, "How do you know if a boy likes you?"

Pamela opens her mouth and before she can answer, he clarifies, "Likes you as more than a friend. How do you know that? How can you tell?"

_You're allowed, _he reminds himself. _You are allowed._

But just because it's allowed doesn't mean it's reciprocated.

"Is this about Derrick?" Pamela asks. "Did he…" She fiddles with the soap dispenser, straightening it. "Did he do something?"

_Did he _do_ something? _Cam thinks. He doesn't even know what to make of that question. Doesn't know if the answer is negative or positive, just knows that whatever he says will make it sound full of yearning. Because that's what he's doing: he's ignoring messages and FaceTimes and phone calls, he's telling his parents to tell everyone he's not home if they show up here, and he's _yearning_.

"No," he says to her, and feeling rather small, like he's staring up at the school, scared on his first day of kindergarten, he adds, "but I want him to. I think."

His mother slides down to the floor with him, smiling in that way moms do, endeared and entirely tired of their children's shit. She palms his face, holds his cheeks in both hands. Her eyes are so soft. "You think?"

"I do," he amends, "I'm just not sure if he's just being himself or… or if he wants to, too." He fists the hem of his mom's shirt, holding tight.

"Oh, Cam," she says softly. "You're not going to find that out by staying in this house all summer."

* * *

**_(8:27) Be less reserved than you usually are. At least try._**

* * *

The music pounds in his ears, the bassline all but merging with his heartbeat, making him feel like the song has taken his body over, has taken him over. Cam blinks, shakes his head, and wraps his fingers around Claire's, lets her pull him away.

"How long do you want to stay?" she asks, pitching her voice over the chorus. Everyone is just dry-humping to it anyway, which is disgusting, but Cam can't get over their carelessness. These people – his classmates – are aware they can all see them right now, but they don't care. Some of them are macking on boys and girls they'd never be caught dead with in public, but a party space is different. It's wild. It's kind of inspiring.

Cam lifts his shoulder in a sloppy shrug, bringing his red cup to his mouth and finishing his drink with one last swig. "Depends on if you want to leave to go to bed or leave to binge Netflix."

"If we leave now, we can definitely get much farther in _Stranger Things,_ but it's, like, extremely early and I'm not even a fraction of the level of drunk you're aspiring to be" – which, true, because Cam hasn't been out in public like this since the pool incident last month, and he doesn't know if he can mingle with Dylan, Plovert, or Derrick the same – "and that's a waste of this cute outfit, if I'm honest."

"It is a cute outfit," Cam agrees. "We can stay. It doesn't matter."

Claire turns her head to eye him curiously. "Are you sure? You know I'm fine with staying at home and spending time with you."

"I never mentioned wanting to leave!" Cam says. "You brought it up. I know you want to be here and I wouldn't have come if I didn't want to be here either. I just have to get over myself. That's all."

"Right." Claire bites her lower lip. "And you're sure? You're not just doing it for me? You do that sometimes. Don't make that face."

"Stop worrying so much about me," Cam retorts, "and go flirt with Dempsey Solomon. He just spotted you."

Claire's cheeks turn bright red. "Cam, I – "

"Oh my god, leave me be," he teases. "Go kiss that boy before I get fed up and do it myself."

She gasps theatrically. "You wouldn't."

He laughs. "No. I wouldn't." The next words are torn from his throat, like he doesn't have any control over their existence. "There's only one boy I want to – "

"I know." Claire squeezes his hand before he can finish the sentence. "You know it's fine, right? No one's brought it up or said anything weird. I don't think anyone even really noticed."

"Dylan did," says Cam. "She wouldn't have… she knows. I know she does. Everyone does, I think, because I apparently have no chill."

"Is there anything wrong with that?" asks Claire. "People knowing? _Him_ knowing? Because you know I think that he – "

Cam shakes his head back and forth and back and forth, forcing her to come to a stop. He's sick of everyone giving him advice like that, implying that there's a chance. There isn't. He knows there isn't and he doesn't want to get his hopes up because no one wants to let him down hard. They want to ease him into it – all the girls and his mom, with their nice words and their innocent actions and _You never know unless you try._ He doesn't want to hear it again, especially not from Claire, his really great ex-girlfriend who _still_ somehow wants to be his friend.

"_I think_ I am going to get another drink," he says, spotting Alicia's long, dark hair. "_I think _you'll be all cute with Dempsey and forget about me, so I'll find someone else to take me home."

"You know who would?" Claire asks, mouth forming to teasingly (read: cruelly) say a name he doesn't want to hear right now.

"Alicia," Cam says loudly, cutting her off. Their friend twists around, eyes bright, lips twisting into a smile when she sees them.

"Claire! _Cam_!" she greets exuberantly, rising to her tiptoes to kiss each of them on the cheek. "You're here! I can't believe you're here!"

"We love an Olivia Ryan birthday bash," replies Cam. "They get real messy."

"Speaking of messy," starts Alicia, looking at their empty hands, "shots!" She claps twice, plucks plastic cups of jello from the table behind her, and presses two at each of them. "Don't ask me what's in them, I don't know, but they taste like chocolate. Trés delicious." She clinks one of hers against theirs. "Cheers!"

Cam and Claire make eye contact and shrug at the same time, as if they're starring in a sitcom. He runs his pinky around the jello, loosening it, and slurps it.

Alicia blinks at him, watching the movement. "That was… kind of erotic?"

"Remarkably sensual," Claire agrees.

"Do it again."

He snorts at Alicia, does the same with the second: slips his tongue between the shot glass and the jello, slips it into his mouth.

"When _I _take these, I make a whole mess," Claire says, then demonstrates. She breaks her glass right down the middle, snapping it in half. "You make it look like art."

Alicia laughs. Hands her another one.

"Okay," says Cam, "now that I've found someone else to take care of me, I think it's time for you to spend your time with Dempsey."

"Oh my god!" Alicia exclaims. "Oh my god, _go_! What are you doing here? Everyone knows he's got a thing for you and you're here doing what? Cam is in good hands with me. Go, go, _go_." She has the audacity to shove Claire away, though it's in the wrong direction.

Claire stops, looks back at Cam. "You'll be – "

"Yes, _Mom_," he whines. "I'll be fine. I'm good. I'm with Alicia."

The girl in question loops her arm through his, holds him tight. Claire does not look convinced at all, which is very fair. At the least, Alicia will abandon him. At the most, she will get the two of them drunker than they need to be – but that's the whole point of Olivia Ryan's birthday parties. After the first shitshow extravaganza in eighth grade, she started advertising them as such, telling everyone to bring their A game and to do anything and everything they would not want _Gossip Girl_ to broadcast. She went as far as confiscating phones at the door, letting them wallow in their debauchery. Some weird shit happens at these things, a result of summer attitudes, no inhibitions, and no one to document their actions.

"Right," she replies. "Try not to take that risk in your relationship with Josh tonight, though, okay? I need Cam in one piece."

"Oh my _god_," Alicia bleats again. "It's fine, I won't. I _already_ – "

"You already did anal?" Cam interrupts. "I can't believe you, you listened to a psychic _again_ – "

Alicia slaps his bicep over and over with the back of her palm. "It was _not_ about _anal_!"

"Sure. Right. Of course not." Cam stops her next hit with a quick grab of her wrist and twists her around so he's hugging her to his chest. "How many jello shots are we allowed to have?"

"As many as we want," she says. "Aren't they good? Let's do some more."

"Are they all chocolate?"

"I think so, but we can taste them all and find out."

"You're full of so many great ideas," he praises.

Alicia giggles, wriggling away from him and flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Thank you. I know."

Cam is certain he's had three too many by the time they stop. The room isn't spinning, per se, but everything is louder, brighter, and bigger. Normally that'd freak him out. Normally he'd want to take several steps back, maybe sit down, maybe go for a walk outside. But it's a nice sort of atmosphere he's in – Josh showed up at some point and is being nauseating with Alicia, and Dylan's here, smelling like some sort of tropical beach princess, and it's the most at ease he's felt in weeks.

Kristen whines about how they can't take any pictures tonight and what a _waste_ that is, she should have come in a paper bag. Kemp comes up from behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, picks her up. Spins. She shrieks, giggling, and Cam makes a face. He wasn't aware they were back together. They'd broken up "for real this time," whatever that means, back in April. There seemed to be no coming back from that one.

"That's a recent development," Derrick says on his left.

Cam stiffens, hopes it's not obvious.

"It happened, like, a week ago? I dunno, one second they weren't speaking, the next they were making out, and I couldn't see _Spiderman_ anymore. It was gross."

Cam nods, interested but not really, and wishes Claire were around to act as a buffer, but she's off making the bad decisions she deserves and he needs to learn to fend for himself. Which he can do. He's fine.

Very aware of all of his surroundings, including the cologne Derrick is wearing, but fine. _Fine_.

"I'm gonna go get another drink," he decides.

"Cam," says Derrick.

He moves swiftly, pretending he didn't hear him. It's hard to ignore your own name, though, and even harder to act as if you didn't hear the way it's been said, especially when it sounds like _that_. But he's stronger than all those unnecessary feelings, so he elbows past what looks like Allie-Rose Singer and Alexandra Regan, who is very pretty now that she no longer has weird neon-colored bands on her braces, in a very heated embrace. He has no idea where their hands are. Does not want to find out.

He hears his name again: louder, more insistent, less sad. Annoyed.

A better combination, but not one that makes him stop. He's glad to slip past a set of speakers as he makes his way into the kitchen. Is _not_ glad when he's the only one there, surrounded by thousands of dollars of alcohol – the teens of Westchester are so pretentious – and Derrick bursts through.

Cam doesn't really want another drink. The, like, eight jello shots he had before have been more than enough, but he does want something to do with his hands, so he starts sniffing cups, dumping their contents in the sink, throwing them out. He pours vodka into a new one, mixes it with lemonade, is convinced the skin on the back of his neck is burning with the intensity of Derrick's gaze.

He reaches out – Derrick, not Cam – to steal the cup before Cam can drink it. Cam watches him chug it, an impressive feat, and waits for Derrick to give it back. Derrick makes a big show of rolling his eyes and throws it out himself. Cam makes a face, fishes it from the trash, puts it in the recycling bin.

"You're a melodramatic piece of shit," Derrick tells him with no preamble, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You've been ignoring me."

Cam is not a fan of confrontation, if that's crazy to imagine given his friendship with Derrick, and he especially does not like having to do this with him. Does not like having his shit thrown in his face like this. Does not like that he lies, "I'm not _ignoring _– "

"Of course you are!" Derrick shoots back. "If I had my phone, I'd show you all the texts I sent you that you blatantly _did not answer_. You're ignoring me."

"I've been busy," says Cam.

"Busy with _what_?" Derrick demands, choking on a disbelieving laugh. "You've never been too busy for me and I've known you for _nine_ years."

There's no answer to that – because he has been ignoring him, ignoring all of them except Claire and Kristen that one time – and Derrick knows it. Derrick knows he's right. "My grandma is," he starts.

"Your grandma is fucking _fine_," Derrick snaps. "Don't bring her into this."

"Don't bring her into what?" Cam shoots back. "And, what the fuck, my grandma could be not fine, how would you even _know_?"

"Our brothers are friends," Derrick reminds him. "They talk a lot."

"They talk about my _grandma_?"

"No! I mean, not often, but if there was something wrong, I imagine Harris would tell Pat, so that's how I know you're ignoring me and your grandma is fine. Leave her out of your excuses."

"If you'd let me finish," Cam says, "you'd find out that I was going to say my grandma has been _visiting_, I've been busy with _that_, and I'm not ignoring you. Or making excuses."

"Cool, but your grandma cannot take up all your time, and she most certainly isn't in charge of if you text me back or not." Derrick crosses his arms over his chest; Cam stares at the muscles of his biceps, straining against the sleeves of his shirt. It looks too small for him for some reason. "You haven't talked to me in three weeks. We never go that long without speaking. You've been _ignoring _me – no, shut up – since the thing at Dylan's, and I don't know – "

He sounds like a broken record at this point, Cam does. A broken record with all the wrong lyrics recorded on it. "I'm not ignoring you," he lies for the umpteenth time, "and I don't know what you're talking about, nothing happened at Dylan's – "

_Nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened_, he can't believe Derrick brought it up, can't believe it's being mentioned, Claire said no one talked about it, Claire said no one cared –

His blood pressure has _skyrocketed_. Of course Derrick cares. It happened between the two of them and he is here to put him in his place, to tell him he's interested in _girls_, not Cam, and Cam should stop acting so fucking desperate.

"Bull_shit_," Derrick snaps. "Something _did_ happen, and you know it, I wasn't the only person there, Cam, it didn't just happen to _me _– "

Cam shakes his head because he hates this and he wants to leave, so he does. He doesn't say a single thing, doesn't try to be polite about his escape. He just – he does it, turning on his heel and making a beeline for the door.

He's not fast enough; retrospectively he knew that all along, knew he wouldn't outrun Derrick. He never could. Derrick was always faster, always two steps ahead. Always ensnaring him.

Cam never stood a chance. Not when he was eight. Not when he was thirteen. Especially not now when he's seventeen and everything is confusing and he can't look at his best friend without _feeling_ things he only ever used to feel with girls. Well, not girls. With Claire, who is a girl.

"Stop ignoring me," Derrick says, and it doesn't even sound like a word anymore, "and _talk_ to me."

Cam stares down at the hand wrapped around his wrist, the fingers tight on his bone. They're long. They're tan. They're in the worst spot in the world, giving Derrick the ability to feel his racing heart, his inconsistent pulse. He wonders if he can blame the alcohol for that.

"There's nothing to talk about. Nothing happened," Cam replies, his voice a croak, his words a lie. He meets Derrick's gaze, tantalizing and strong and falls into it. Cam licks his lips, watches Derrick track the movement, feels his heart betray him. Derrick feels it, too, pressing his fingers into his pulse point in response, where it stutters again. "What do you want me to say?" he blurts. "What do you want me to tell you? That I'm ignoring you? You want to hear that? Fine, I _am_ ignoring you, Derrick. I got all of your texts and your calls and I deliberately didn't answer them, are you happy – "

Derrick moves forward, boxes him in, pressing him against the wall rougher than necessary. "No, I'm clearly not fucking happy."

"What do you _want_ from me?" Cam demands, voice tinny. A squeak. He's so nervous it's nauseating.

"I want you to tell me I'm wrong," Derrick says.

"What? Wrong about what?" Cam asks, eyes darting all about his face, unable to pick one part to look at.

Derrick isn't holding his wrist anymore. He's touching his cheeks tentatively, reverently. "Tell me that this isn't what was supposed to happen that day."

"What? You bruising my back and blocking all circulation to my fingers? Yeah, I don't think that was supposed to happen." Cam can't look away from the brown of his eyes, dark and deep and mystifying, looking at him… at him like he had weeks ago, chin tilted up. Like he wants… Cam swallows. "Or is it this fight you're wondering about? I don't think this was it either, but like I said _nothing_ happened and – "

"For once in your life," Derrick snaps, "just _shut. Up._" He slides his fingers into Cam's hair, digs into his scalp, makes this heated sort of eye contact – and then he's kissing him, mouth hot and wet and sinfully sweet.

And today is not the day Cam finally shuts up because the whine that's ripped from the deep confines of his throat is louder than any word he's ever uttered.

Derrick pulls away, bringing Cam's lower lip with him, dragged between his teeth. He lets go with a wet pop, a sound and sensation that does _a lot_ to Cam, you know, where he's pressed against Derrick's leg. "You're really good at ruining a moment," Derrick says. He shifts so the friction makes Cam inhale sharply.

Cam is embarrassed, maybe, that he's having such a strong reaction to him, but he's also not. He can't find it in himself to give a shit, slipping his hands beneath Derrick's worn shirt, feeling the skin of his back like a – like a lover instead of a friend. "You call that a moment?" he asks. "You were basically threatening me."

Derrick grins, soft and lazy. "Sorry," he says, but he's not. "You're hot when you're riled up." He leans forward again, hands sliding down to cup Cam's butt. "Then again, you're always hot."

* * *

**_(7:06) Your heart is on fire._**

* * *

Cam wakes to a question.

"Do you regret it?" Derrick's breath is hot against the back of his neck, his arm thrown haphazardly over his middle. They often end up like this when they sleep in the same bed, but never does Derrick sound so nervous. Never does Cam act on his desire to fit his fingers between his.

But here they are: Derrick and his voice quivering, Cam holding his hand on his belly.

It's not the question he'd been expecting and he doesn't answer it the way Derrick wants. "I never regret anything when I do it with you," he says.

"No," Derrick mumbles, his nose pressed against his shoulder. "I mean, do you regret…" He pauses, snuffles a bit. "Do you regret kissing me?"

Cam twists, rolling over. He meets Derrick eyes, as intense as they are wide. His leg bounces against his, his nervous energy making Cam's heart race. He's never been the person to initiate anything with Derrick, always lets him take charge, but now he breaks that barrier, moving forward and kissing him.

Derrick freezes, hand clenching into a fist at his side, and then he opens up beneath him. As easy as it was to be in control, it is even easier to lose it, and Cam falls back, lets Derrick lead him, presses against him when it's too much to not be touching him, mewls into his mouth when he tugs at his hair, when he forces his shirt up and over his head.

"Does that answer your question?" he asks, breathless. He watches with hooded eyes as Derrick sits up to take his own shirt off. He does that thing that boys all do, grabs the neckline at the back, pulls it over his head in one fell swoop. Cam gets it, why people like watching boys do that. Gets why people like watching _Derrick _do stuff.

"No," Derrick says.

"_No_?"

He's barricaded in, Derrick's nose pressed against his, elbows on either side of his face. His entire world smells of Derrick – of sleep, of sweat, of spice and what remains of the alcohol he'd consumed, right there on his skin.

"Use your words," orders Derrick, his mouth inches from his. When he speaks, their lips brush, tiny little kisses.

He's already got his answer, Cam can see it in his eyes, but he still says, "I don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't regret it," Cam continues, grinning.

Derrick bites down on his lower lip, a mixture of amused and unamused. "If you just do this right," he murmurs, "it'll be a lot more fun."

"You don't find this fun?" Cam asks. He lifts his head, applies more pressure than necessary, enunciates the hell out of _fun_. Derrick inhales sharply, frowns, and then thinks otherwise: He ducks his head, presses his mouth firmly to Cam's – kisses, kisses, _kisses_.

Cam doesn't think he's ever thought of this word so much in one sitting before.

Kiss. _Kiss. **Kiss**_.

It's such a nice word, and even nicer when you're doing it with someone you like, someone you –

The world stops. Silence rings in Cam's ears. Derrick pushes himself onto his palms, hovers over him. In any normal situation, Cam'd be staring at the veins in his arms, the easy way he can hold himself up. Not like it's some great feat, but it's always been nice to look at. _He's_ always been nice to look at, even now with his swollen mouth and flushed cheeks. With the furrowed brow and that look in his eye.

"What'd you say?" he breathes.

Cam can't look away from how… how vulnerable he looks. He's falling into that gaze, into the pieces of Derrick he's never really seen before.

"What'd your horoscope say?" Cam asks. His fingers itch to touch his face, but he keeps them in the sheets instead. They're soft and warm beneath his touch, the kind that Derrick's been using for years – jersey sheets that he rotates in different colors every month. He imagines Derrick's hair would feel that way, too, if he ran his fingers through the curls. "When Alicia signed us up for them, you didn't… you said you were happy I was not in Germany, which isn't what Hermia sent you, is it?"

Derrick says, "You don't care for shit like that."

"I don't," he replies. "What'd it say?"

"I told you," Derrick says, "it wasn't anything – it wasn't _important_."

"It must've been if you started," says Cam, then stops. His hands lift on his own accord, like they have a mind of their own, and they slide up Derrick's thighs, brush against his hipbones, linger there. "If you started acting like this," he starts again, "it must've been something."

Derrick laughs, this soft sort of thing, and drops down. Their foreheads touch. "When'd you start believing in this enough to ask if – "

"You've never acted like this before," Cam interrupts. "I would've known. It only happened after the horoscopes."

"I act like this all the time," Derrick whispers. "All the time. Only with you. It's only after the horoscopes that _you_ acted different."

"I'm in love with you," says Cam. "That's what I said. I've been in love with you since I was fourteen."

Derrick's ears go pink, then his cheeks, then his neck. Cam trails his fingers over the color, feels the warmth there. "Allow yourself to be ambitious," Derrick tells him. "That's what it said. Be ambitious. I told you it wasn't important, and it wasn't. It just – _be ambitious_," he says again. "Could mean anything, but I got the text and I decided I wanted to be ambitious about you. I decided to let myself _want_."

"And what do you want?" Cam asks.

"The same thing you want," he answers. "This. Us. You." He cups his cheeks, drops his weight. Straddles him. "Yesterday Hermia told me to tell the truth, but I never got around to it." He brushes his mouth against Cam's jaw, light and warm. He doesn't need to say what he says next; Cam already knows, just in the way he's touching him. "I'm in love with you too," he says. "And if you'd paid any attention, you'd realize how long I've been."

Cam tilts his chin, catches Derrick's mouth before it can move away. "I don't pay attention," he says. "Not often."

"I know." Derrick sounds petulant. "Is this not the result of that?"

"Tell me." Cam scratches at his scalp, fingers running through his hair. The curls are as soft and silky as he thought. Derrick lets out a tiny contented sigh; his eyes flutter shut. "How long?"

"I don't know," Derrick says, even though he does know, he knows exactly. "Since I was twelve, I guess." He sniffs, opens his eyes – bright and brown and beautiful. "Now can you answer _my_ question so we can get to the fun part?"

"You mean talking about our feelings isn't fun to you?"

"When the feelings are positive and reciprocated, of course it's fun," says Derrick. "And even when they're not, I'm sure it will be fun, too, because I'll be doing it with you, but making out is more fun and I'd really like to do that now, if you want. I think I understand our feelings."

"And other things," adds Cam.

Derrick blinks. "What?"

"Making out and other things," he elaborates.

"What kind of other things?" asks Derrick.

"We'll have to see," Cam says. He takes Derrick's face in his hands, pulls him close. "I don't regret kissing you."

And he most certainly does not regret anything else that comes after, either.


End file.
